


Titanium (I'm Bulletproof, Nothing To Lose)

by sassbandit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Coming Out, Genital Piercing, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Trauma, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Piercings, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbandit/pseuds/sassbandit
Summary: What do you do when you're a recovering traumatized cyborg assassin with a tendency toward body dysphoria? Go stick some metal in your dick!Or, the one where Bucky reconnects with his body by getting a lot of piercings.





	Titanium (I'm Bulletproof, Nothing To Lose)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We had porn in the old days, Tony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271967) by [sassbandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbandit/pseuds/sassbandit). 



> While I was writing [We had porn in the old days, Tony](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13271967) I found myself wondering, what would happen if Bucky googled Prince Albert piercings? This is the result. (It's otherwise unconnected to the [Power Bottom Steve 'verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/911907), though.)
> 
> Although this fic is tagged for medical trauma, it's all off-screen and in the past. The characters discuss HYDRA's medical experimentation on Bucky, but not in detail. This is 100% a recovery story.
> 
> Cover art by [thatsmysecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmysecret).

Yelp is one of the best things about the 21st century, Bucky decides. Turns out that checking out reviews and pictures of a place before he goes there does a lot to settle his anxiety. There's nothing like having good intel before an op.

The piercing studio is about eight blocks from the apartment he shares with Steve. It's upstairs over a boutique, and all the way up the stairs there are tastefully shot black and white images of people with all kinds of… body art, that's what they call it. He'd noticed it first on the streets of Brooklyn, the way just about everyone had tattoos you wouldn't even have seen on sailors back in the day, and rings not just through their ears but also their noses, lips, eyebrows.

He hadn't thought about it too hard, until one day he's fooling around on the internet while Steve's out and sees a guy with a ring through his dick. His eyes bug out. One minute he was casually contemplating his returning libido and thinking about jerking off, and the next minute his brain was being turned inside out by the sight of metal where he really didn't expect it. 

Seriously, is that a thing people do now? He googles, "ring through your dick" and it's not clear at all. Turns out cock rings are a _different_ thing they have in the 21 st century. "Dick earring" just turns up a bunch of people making and selling actual earrings in the shape of penises. Some of them are intended for brides. This is going nowhere good.

Steve subscribes to a "lifestyle magazine" that arrives every month, which he helpfully leaves lying around for Bucky to read in case he needs help getting his head around what queers are like in the 21st century. Gays. LBG something something. Whatever. Turns out that these days they have their own newspapers and magazines and television shows, with ads for things like vacation resorts where all the guys go nude and cell phone plans which apparently are just for lesbians and bakeries that do rainbow wedding cakes. It's all pretty different from what little he recalls from before the war, not that he'd dared to go looking in any case.

In the back of Steve's magazine, they have little ads for all sorts of stuff. One of them says "piercings" and Bucky thinks, "Oh!" 

Now he has something better to google.

The place he chooses has top reviews and the pictures show a warm, comfortable space. He likes that. He also likes the fact that it's upstairs, with lots of natural light. He's been thinking about this for weeks, and the thing he keeps focusing on is that it's going to be different. His mission, as he sees it, is to get some metal attached to his body in a way that is completely opposite from HYDRA in every possible way. No dank bunkers, no Nazi uniforms, no electrodes to the frontal lobes. So far so good.

There's a guy sitting at a computer when he comes in, with glasses and big holes in his earlobes like they have these days. "Hey," he says. "What can I help you with?"

"I've got an appointment," Bucky says.

"James, yeah?" the guy asks, checking his screen. "Right! Zero will be ready in a few minutes. Can I get you anything? Water, tea?" Bucky shakes his head. "Great, well, take a seat and we'll just get you to fill out some paperwork."

He's pondering "pre-existing medical conditions" when the piercer comes out from the other room. He's a wiry, brown-skinned guy with a ring through the middle part of his nose – his septum, Bucky remembers from the websites he checked out – and dark eyes you could lose yourself in. Bucky tries not to stare. Probably best not to, if this guy's going to be handling Bucky's dick. "James?" the piercer says, and shakes Bucky's hand. "Let's see what you've got there."

Bucky leaves the medical stuff blank and adds Steve's number for his emergency contact. The piercer – Zero, what kind of name is that? – takes the clipboard and skims through it. His eyebrows lift at the date of birth, and he looks quickly at Bucky and says, "Wow, okay. Pleased to meet you."

"The medical stuff," Bucky says, because he might as well get it over with. "I've got a prosthetic." He takes off his glove and shows his hand. "Does that matter?"

"Not for this," Zero says. "Why don't you come through."

The back room's like the front, all warm wooden floors and exposed brick, with art on the walls. A window looks out across the street. Low music's playing, something with a beat and voices flowing over it like stuttering poetry. There's a padded bench with a paper sheet laid over it. No chair – Bucky had vetoed a couple of places on Yelp that had those, closing the tabs quickly.

"So," Zero says, "I don't want to be weird about this, but I guess I know who you are." Bucky nods; Steve gets far more people coming up to him for selfies and autographs than Bucky does, but enough of them recognize Bucky from the media circus that happened after DC that he's gotten used to it. "I haven't pierced anyone like you before, so I need to go over some stuff."

He asks a bunch of questions about Bucky's body. It's all very professional, and Bucky finds himself slipping into the headspace he uses with doctors these days, even though the piercer's wearing a plaid shirt and dark skinny jeans instead of a uniform or a white lab coat. Even the gloves he pulls on are black, like this place goes out of its way to be as far from a medical lab as it can be.

Bucky answers Zero's questions about his faster healing and nods at the suggestion of titanium jewelry. "I guess your pain tolerance is pretty high?" Zero asks.

"It won't be a problem," Bucky says. _Kid, you've got no idea._

It's nothing, in fact. Barely a pinch, and Bucky just looks at the painting on the opposite wall and goes to his still place. He doesn't even flinch when it happens.

He realizes the piercer's saying his name. "James? You're all done."

Bucky looks down. He's got a ring through his dick. A Prince Albert, it's called, same as that first one he saw on the internet. He stares for a good long moment, then manages to arrange his face into a smile. "Thanks," he says.

He leaves with a printed sheet of maintenance instructions – aftercare, they call it – and a shrug from Zero. "I don't know how long it'll take, man. You know your own body best. Just go easy and keep it clean until you're sure it's healed."

Bucky walks the eight blocks back feeling every brush of his pants against the new piercing. There's a sting, and a sort of throbbing, but it's not bad at all. Almost good, in a weird way. Turns out pain's different when you choose it yourself. When he gets home he's going to… well, he's just going to bask in that, actually. 

Steve's out, but even so, Bucky shuts his bedroom door before he takes off his clothes and sits on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. He's not going to touch, because that's on the DON'T list on his aftercare sheet, but he's definitely going to look. He puts his hands on his hips, framing his dick, metal hand on one side and flesh hand on the other, and… just stares for a while.

It never occurred to him how little attention he actually pays to his dick. While he's had plenty of good times with his pants off, he's never just sat and looked at it like this, noticing the shape and the texture, the way it nestles there in the juncture of his thighs. Not since he was a kid, and maybe not even then. 

It looks good, he thinks – no, it looks _amazing_ with the metal curling out the end. Decorated, like something he's proud of. The metal has the same glint to it as his hand, the same smooth reflectivity.

It feels a little inflamed around the head, hot like a fever, and the thrum he felt on the walk home is still there. He thinks about the DON'T list. He's not going to touch the piercing itself, but he can – yeah. He traces his right forefinger along the length of his dick, stopping before the head, and back again. He does it again, and watches as it moves, filling up in response. He's not going to – he can't let himself get off like this, but he wants to see what it looks like. Thumb and forefinger around the shaft, just loosely. He cups his balls with his left hand, tugs at them gently. As he gets hard, he gets a new view of the underside, where the piercing emerges from his skin. 

The stinging sharpens as he hardens up. It's minor, not something he'd usually care about at all, but he hears Zero's lecture in his head, and this piercing is _his_ and he's going to take care of it. Maybe he's had enough for now. He moves his hands away, puts them at his side, and watches as his erection slowly flags.

Bucky's in the kitchen making dinner, wearing loose sweats and dancing to the radio with maybe just a little more hip wiggle than usual, when Steve gets home. He looks worn out, shoulders slumped, and he heads straight for the bathroom. Bucky hears the shower running, and waits a long time for it to stop before he plates up their chicken and green beans and salad.

"Tell me about your day," Steve says, sitting down at the table. "Unless it involved Doombots, in which case don't."

Bucky shrugs, and keeps his face straight. Bucky's not gonna talk about his dick over dinner. "Just did a few things around the neighborhood," he says. "Did you know there's a new restaurant, does nothing but mac and cheese? We should go."

"I've got press stuff tomorrow," Steve says tiredly. He pulls out his phone and scrolls. "The Advocate. Pride. You know." Steve's marched every year since 2013, and there are always interviews and features in the lead-up. This year he's marching with the LGBT Veterans and their allies.

"Maybe I'll come see it in person this time," Bucky says. The first year after the helicarriers, he watched through a scope from a distant rooftop, hardly understanding what he was seeing. Last year, he and Natasha watched a live stream, sharing one big bowl of popcorn. Steve marched in his uniform, and later on there was an entire float of other people dressed as Steve, in booty shorts and red white and blue sequins, which was hilarious. 

"You could march with us if you wanted," Steve says, then adds, carefully, "As an ally."

As an ally. Right. He's really going to have to say something about that, soon. "I'll think about it," Bucky says, and fills his face with green beans.

After dinner, Steve sits sprawled across the sofa, half-heartedly flicking through their Netflix recommendations. Bucky finishes up the dishes and takes the other end of the sofa, pushing his feet under Steve's thighs to keep them warm.

"Either pick something or give me the remote," he says, then regrets it when Steve picks a romantic comedy. He's been on a romcom bender lately, which means Netflix just keeps recommending more and more of them. Could be worse, Bucky thinks, remembering the time Netflix started recommending Cold War spy thrillers.

The problem with these movies is that everyone is stupid and nobody communicates. Bucky can't even criticize them because he's not sure he'd do any better under the circumstances. Though the people in the movie have far shittier excuses than Bucky does. And of course _they_ all get their stupid happy endings, no matter how long it takes.

Steve always likes to watch the credits all the way through. Bucky waits until the actors' names have scrolled past then takes a breath, nudges his toe under Steve's thigh to make sure he's paying attention and says, "If I march." 

"Mm?"

"If I march in the parade. I'm not going to march as an ally."

"You're not…" Steve sounds sleepy, but he rubs his eyes as he parses what Bucky said. "Oh. You mean… that's great, Bucky." He's sitting up straighter, alert, waiting to see if there's more.

That's as much as Bucky's got right now. "I'll let you know." That's all he's ever been able to promise, since he came back. He nudges Steve with the remote. "You want to pick another one?"

Steve falls asleep halfway through the second movie. Bucky extricates himself from the tangle of limbs on the sofa and heads to the kitchen to boil some water like his aftercare sheet says. He stands silently watching the kettle. 

What he said to Steve, indirect as it was, is the most he's said to anyone until now. It'd taken a long time to remember after he came back, even longer to understand. And Bucky's not Steve, he's not someone who'd stand on a soapbox and shout it to the world just because it's the right thing to do. But it felt right to say something, even if the next step still seems a long way off.

Bucky's got enough on his plate getting familiar with his own dick, let alone anyone else's. Twice daily saline soaks, for starters. He's healed from a lot worse with far less babying, but fuck it, it's not like touching his dick and gently examining his new metal is any kind of hardship. 

Bucky wakes up a few times through the night, and every single time it's because his dick's hard. It makes a nice if distracting change from nightmares. He keeps his hands off it and manages to go back to sleep each time. In the morning, it doesn't sting when he pisses, though it's still tender. 

He makes it through the whole day – Prospect Park, bookstore, take-out mac and cheese (one with truffle flavor, one with chipotle something, and two with bacon because they definitely need double of that), cleaning the apartment, reading his new book by the open window with one ear open for the sound of Steve's bike, _finally_ eating the mac and cheese (the bacon is, unsurprisingly, the best), watching Steve sketch and talk about the Advocate feature – without jerking off. He thinks he deserves a prize for that. It's not that he can't go a day without – it's that he's never had to do it while being constantly, distractingly aware of every tiny movement and sensation between his legs.

When he finally retreats to the bathroom that evening to follow the DO steps from his aftercare sheet, he gets a chance to evaluate. Nothing stings, and when he swabs it with saline, he realizes it doesn't hurt at all. No tenderness, just. Shit, that feels good. _Thanks, Nazi scientist fucks,_ he thinks, choking back a laugh. The serum's finally coming in handy for something nice.

He tugs experimentally on the ring, hooking his finger through it and giving it just the lightest pull away from his body, and fuck. That's intense. He's been half-hard on and off all day, but now he's rapidly coming to full attention. He spits in his hand, getting it good and sloppy, and rolls his palm around the head of his dick, pushing the ring back and forth. He can feel the metal _inside_. No point taking his time – he's been on edge for too long. He experiments with his technique, finding a way that bumps the piercing with each stroke, and in no time he's gasping and watching his come well up out of his slit, around the metal ring. It looks incredible.

He does it twice more before he goes to sleep. _Also thanks, Nazi fucks._

It's not like everything changes all at once, but it's a small change, and more small changes follow. He feels a little looser in his body. He looks in the full length mirror more often, dropping his towel after his shower and just taking it in. He learns new ways to adjust himself when the ring gets all twisted and pinchy, and (not unrelatedly) switches to boxer briefs full time. He develops a taste for cold-drip iced coffee with chicory, which has nothing whatsoever to do with his dick piercing, but damn it's good.

Bucky goes to group counseling at the VA every week, and works out at a gym where they have kettlebells and don't ask too many questions. He knows their neighborhood like the back of his hand, sightlines and escape routes and blind corners, but over time he's found ways to turn down the part of his brain that plays through operational scenarios so he can run errands like a normal person. He's not going to stop wearing his combat boots anytime soon, but he takes them off when he's at home, and puts his feet up on the coffee table when Steve's not around to tell him off.

He and Steve head over to Bed-Stuy for a party at Clint's place. They follow the noise up to the roof where Clint's wearing an apron and flipping burgers at the grill. Natasha sees them come in. Her gaze narrows on Bucky. She's too good at reading him not to notice something's different since they last caught up. She flicks a quick, assessing look over at Steve, then raises her eyebrows inquiringly at Bucky. Bucky gives an almost-imperceptible shake of his head and she turns away with a disgusted look that Bucky knows is 90% performance.

Another time, Bucky braves the subway into Manhattan. He arrives at the Tower only moderately twitchy for the "informal gathering" Stark's throwing because Thor's in town. There are a lot of people, and an even more ridiculous quantity of food. Steve's surrounded by his friends, laughing at their jokes, but he breaks off when Bucky comes in and introduces him around to the people he doesn't know. There are a lot of them, and they talk fast. Bucky's glad when he gets to duck away and load up a plate with food from the huge buffet. He finds a spot against the wall to watch from, and tries to make small talk with Bruce, who comes over to keep him company. It's not so bad.

Steve gets called away for a few days, and Bucky _doesn't_ sit glued to CNN the whole time, and doesn't mope around like a lonely puppy, but actually goes out and does things. He even goes dancing, not at one of those retro swing dance clubs but at a perfectly normal modern nightclub. It's better that way, because he doesn't need to explain the arm to his dance partner. He wears a tight, long-sleeved black shirt, keeps his left hand in his pocket when he's not dancing, and ducks outside for some fresh air when the crowds and flashing lights get to be too much. A few people try to dance with him, women and men both, but he doesn't encourage them, and they move on. There's a lot of bare flesh. Bucky finds himself looking at people's tattoos, and at the rings he can see glinting on a couple of guys' chests. He goes home with his shirt soaked with sweat and his ears ringing.

He tells Steve about it when he calls from somewhere in Asia, Bucky thinks, based on the timezones. "Well, that's great!" Steve says, after a momentary satellite delay. "You used to love going dancing."

"You used to hate it when I made you come with me," Bucky says, remembering the smoky dance halls they'd visit, the double dates he'd always set up, the girls who were always too stupid to see what he was offering them. He remembers Steve sitting alone on the sidelines watching Bucky dance with some dame, the sadness in his eyes. 

"I didn't hate it," Steve says. "It was just hard."

"You didn't want to dance with girls." Bucky had started to put that together, after he started to remember. After he saw what they said about Steve in the museums and the newspapers. He wasn't sure if he had known that before, or not. Steve told him he hadn't.

"No, I really didn't," Steve says, over the crackling phone connection.

"It's different now," Bucky says, pulling his mind back to the present. "You can dance with anyone. Or no one."

"I'm still a terrible dancer, Bucky."

"Hmm," Bucky says. He's never been so sure about that. "Come with me next time," he says impulsively, but Steve makes a feeble excuse and changes the topic to the gallery show he wants to see when he gets back.

The gallery show is stupid and everyone at it is stupid and Bucky is 110% certain that the alleged art would be better if he put his fist through it. It's just maybe possible that Bucky's a little cranky. It's not his fault he sleeps like shit while Steve's away.

When they finally manage to escape, Bucky insists that they get pho with enough chili to blow their heads off, then they go home and watch Disney movies until they both pass out. Bucky wakes up a full eight hours later with crease marks across his face from Steve's crumpled shirt, and has to carefully slide out from under Steve's sleep-heavy arm before he can get up and make coffee.

A couple of weeks later, Bucky's walking past the piercing studio in the early evening when he sees Zero outside, smoking a cigarette. He stops to say hey.

"How's it going?" Zero asks, which is a pretty nonspecific question but Bucky figures out what he means.

"Healed up in about two days," he says. "Doing fine."

"Holy shit." Zero stubs out his cigarette on the sidewalk. "Do you mind if I take a look? Professional interest," he explains, and Bucky nods. "Come on upstairs," Zero says, and leads the way.

Bucky sits on the bench with his pants around his thighs, and Zero puts on gloves before he handles Bucky's dick. He pronounces the piercing totally healed, "Like you've had it for years. You enjoying it?" he says, with a raised eyebrow.

Bucky laughs. "Shit, yeah."

"Well," says Zero, taking off the gloves, but Bucky interrupts him.

"Um. Are you still open? For business, I mean."

"I was just about to close up," Zero says. "Why?"

"Never mind. I can make an appointment. I was just thinking about getting something else."

Zero smiles. "I got nowhere to be, man. What are you thinking?"

"Nipples."

"Good choice. Okay, let me take a look, and we'll see what jewelry you need. Shirt off."

Bucky pulls his shirt over his head. Zero doesn't blink at the arm or the scarring where it's attached, just appraises Bucky's nipples with a practiced eye and says, "I think we'd better go with barbells, just in case."

"In case what?"

"Healing like yours, there's a chance they'll reject. Push out through the skin." 

Right. That's happened before, with shrapnel, some other stuff. The memories are jagged and unpleasant. "Okay," Bucky says, and Zero goes off to get things ready.

When he returns, Bucky's still sitting on the bench, his shirt crumpled in his metal hand. "You want some music?" Zero asks, then pulls up his phone and makes something play without waiting for Bucky's answer. "The autoclave will take a while," he explains, "so we can just chill for a bit."

"Do you mind if I –" Bucky says, indicating his shirt.

"Go ahead," Zero says. "Be comfortable." Bucky puts it back on, and pulls his hair out of his face. He's got an elastic around his wrist, so he twists it up to keep it out of the way while he's at it. If he's going to live among Brooklyn hipsters, he can at least enjoy having what Tony insists on calling a manbun.

"So," Zero says, then pauses, standing across from Bucky with his hip cocked against the windowsill. Bucky raises his eyebrows, to encourage him to go on. "I don't want to be out of line here, so tell me if you don't want to talk about this. I just get the feeling… okay, so. Obviously I haven't pierced any other supersoldiers, right? But I've had a few vets in here, and I know a bit about. Well. I'm thinking maybe you don't have the best relationship with your body." He nods at Bucky's left shoulder.

Bucky realizes he's squeezing the edge of the bench a little bit too tight, crumpling the paper sheet, and lets go deliberately. "You could say that."

Zero's nodding. "It's pretty common. I see a lot of people with trauma, dysphoria, you name it. I don't usually ask," he adds quickly. "Just – friends. Sometimes people want to tell me." He shrugs. "I do a lot of work with the trans community. You know I'm trans, right?"

"I do now," Bucky says.

"Guess you didn't have that back then?" 

Bucky laughs. "You'd be surprised what we had. Called it something different, though."

"Anyway." Zero lets out a breath he's been holding. "I noticed, last time you were in here, you were kind of checked out. I'm not judging," he says quickly. "If that's how you want to do it. But if you want, I can help with that."

"Help how?"

"Help you be present in your body. Nothing weird. I'll talk you through it."

"Present," Bucky says, slowly.

"Uh huh. Like, being here in the moment, experiencing the piercing. It can feel real good."

His PA feels good. Even when it was healing, it hadn't felt _bad_. Intense, yes. But he'd chosen it, which made the difference, turned it from something to ignore to something to appreciate.

Bucky thinks, and says, "I've had some bad medical shit."

"I get that," Zero says. "You don't have to –"

"No, it's good. I want to. I just wanted to let you know. You're not like them. That's why I came here."

Zero looks pleased. "That's what we try for. Nobody needs hospital smell."

Bucky squares his shoulders and says, "Let's do it, then."

He has a few minutes to second-guess himself while Zero gets everything ready. It might be a fucking terrible idea. It might be a great idea. Zero's about as far from a HYDRA medical technician as it's possible to be. More importantly, this is Bucky's thing, that he's doing for himself, because it's _his damn body_. He may as well get the full experience.

"Okay. Shirt, and lie back for me," Zero says, and Bucky settles back on the bench. "Is this okay?" He puts his hand in the center of Bucky's chest.

"Sure."

"Take a few deep breaths and relax," he says. "I'm going to clamp it first. Left or right?"

"Left," Bucky says at random.

The clamp looks like a pair of scissors, but with flat ends. "You've got good nipples," Zero says, which sounds weird but probably isn't under the circumstances. "The piercings are gonna make them stand out more." Zero keeps up a reassuring chatter as he gets all the other stuff he needs. Bucky appreciates it – having something to focus on, rather than disappear into his own head.

"'Kay, here's what we're going to do," he says, making sure Bucky's paying attention. "We're going to breathe together for a minute, then when you're ready, you tell me. I'll pierce on the exhale. You can shut your eyes if you want, or watch, whatever makes you more comfortable."

Bucky nods. Zero's hands are warm against his chest, and he's looking Bucky in the eye as he says all this. Bucky looks right back at him and matches his breath, feeling his chest rise on the inhale and fall on the exhale. Zero dips a little nod of acknowledgement that Bucky's doing it right. 

"Ready," Bucky says, and closes his eyes.

"Breathe in," Zero says. "And… out."

He feels the needle first as a tiny prick, then a sharp hot stab that dissipates almost immediately, leaving a tingling burn behind.

"In," Zero reminds him, and Bucky inhales again. "I'm putting the barbell in now." Another quick pinch, and Bucky can feel Zero's fingertips, then the clamp coming off.

"Keep breathing." Zero's gloved hand is on Bucky's shoulder, warm and reassuring. "How's that feel?"

"Good." It feels like the warmth is spreading through him like liquid. 

"You should be feeling some endorphins," Zero says. Bucky doesn't bother to answer. "You're doing great. Are you ready for me to do the other one now?"

"Gimme a minute." Bucky opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the sun shining low through the window. "I want to see." He tilts his head up and tries to look down at his own nipple.

"We can take as long as you want," Zero says. "I'll get you a mirror." The hand mirror shows about half of Bucky's chest. He can see the streaks of scarring around his shoulder, and then his nipple standing out from his body with a silver ball on either side of it. "Looks great," Zero tells him.

"Feels great."

"Yeah," Zero says with a chuckle. "You just keep breathing, and tell me when you're ready for the second one."

Second one's the same, except this time the endorphins flow over him like a tide. "Fuck me," he says, on an exhale. 

Zero's doing stuff, but Bucky doesn't bother to pay attention until his hand's back on Bucky's shoulder. "Hey," he says, giving a little squeeze. "You doing okay? You with me?"

"Yeah."

"You want to sit up?" He offers Bucky a hand, and then passes him the mirror again. When Bucky hands it back, he's grinning. It makes his cheeks feel weird.

"You did great," Zero says, a soft smile on his face too. "I can tell it was better than last time. So here's what we're going to do. You're going to sit a while on the sofa out in the waiting area, until you come down a bit. I'll make some tea. Then if you want, we can make an appointment for whatever's next on your list."

The tea's some kind of herbal thing, tasting faintly of grass. Bucky books a time to get another piece of metal through his dick in a month.

The nipples heal just as fast as his dick did, with no sign that his body's rejecting them, and Bucky gains a whole new appreciation for his tits. It's not that they didn't feel good before if he rubbed or pinched them, but now even the brush of his shirt against them feels amazing. They stand out against the fabric, too – not enough that anyone would notice unless they were looking, but enough that Bucky occasionally catches someone looking when they pass in the street. It's nice to be appreciated, he thinks.

Steve doesn't notice.

Or he doesn't notice _that_ , anyway. He can tell something's different. 

"How're you doing?" Steve asks one Saturday afternoon. The weather's heated up and they're sitting on the balcony. Bucky's sprawled on the sun-warmed tiles of their balcony in a loose tank top and cutoffs, because fuck it, it's their balcony, and the warm weather feels good. Steve's wearing those long shorts with pockets all over them, and a stupidly tight white t-shirt. The stupid tightness is proven by the fact that Steve's nipples show through _even though he has no nipples._ Not that Bucky's been looking or anything.

"I'm doin' good," Bucky says, and rolls his neck, making it pop.

"You seem good," Steve says. "More relaxed. I'm sorry I've hardly been home. What've you been up to?"

His tone's curious, like he's wondering if Bucky's taken up tai chi or if he's been spending time at the cat café cuddling kittens. Bucky's hardly going to tell him he's been lying around playing with his tits and jerking off. He shrugs. "Just hanging out. Watching TV. Going for walks."

"Oh!" Steve says, remembering something. "Natasha gave me something to give to you." He digs in one of his many pockets and pulls out a thumb drive, one of the ones Natasha uses to send Bucky TV shows she's downloaded from god knows where. He puts it on the arm of his chair and goes to zip up the pocket again, but the drive falls down and skitters across the balcony's tiles, winding up under the table.

Bucky reaches over sideways. "I've got it," he says, and manages to grab it with his outstretched fingertips. He sits up again with his prize.

"Bucky! What…" Steve's tone is shocked.

"What?" Bucky looks over at him. Steve's eyes are wide and he's staring. At Bucky's chest. "Ha," he says with a smirk, realizing that Steve just caught a peek when Bucky's reached for the thumb drive. "What, Steve?"

"You… do you have…"

Bucky pulls his tank top off and leans back, propping his hands on the warm tile. "They're called nipple rings, pal."

"I know what they're called," Steve says. "How long…"

"Cuppla weeks."

"Oh. That's." He stands up abruptly. "I'm just." He turns on his heel and goes inside.

It's not that Bucky's been hiding them, exactly. He just didn't mention them, and Steve didn't notice and didn't ask. Which is pretty much their usual MO, now that Bucky comes to think of it. There's a lot of things Bucky doesn't mention and Steve doesn't ask, even when Bucky probably wouldn't mind if he did.

Bucky waits a beat and follows him, pulling his tank top back on. Steve's at the sink, pouring a glass of water. He drinks it down, then rinses the glass and puts it on the drainer.

"You hate needles," he says. Because obviously that's the important point here.

"I hate Nazi scientists," Bucky replies. "Turns out the needles are fine as long as nobody's wearing a lab coat and monologuing in a basement."

Steve frowns. "I don't know how you can joke about it."

"They feel good," Bucky says with a shrug. "I did it because I wanted to. It's not like… that."

"Okay," Steve says. He sounds dubious, but he lets the topic drop, and they head back out to the balcony with some snacks.

Natasha's quicker on the uptake next time she sees him. She shows up with a cold bottle of vodka and some bootleg MMA fights to mock. They drink sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, with the blinds closed against the hot afternoon sun. The vodka doesn't do much for Bucky, and he's not sure it has all that much effect on Natasha either, but it's traditional. 

She looks him over as he slouches back against the sofa, taking in the way he sprawls with his arm stretched out along the cushions. He can tell when she notices by the very slight widening of her eyes. "How long have you had those?" she asks.

"Few weeks. Prince Albert a few weeks before that."

She nods appreciatively. "Looks like it's working for you." She lifts her glass and downs it, then pours again. "How's Steve like it?" she asks, with a quirk of her eyebrow.

Bucky glares at her, though he doesn't really mean it. "Nothing to do with him."

"Uh huh." She toys with her glass, then says, thoughtfully, "After Steve came out, not long before you showed up, I tried to set him up with a guy from SHIELD HR. Tongue piercing. Turned out he was HYDRA, anyway," she adds and knocks back her drink. Bucky joins her.

"What about it?"

"Steve didn't date him. Said he wasn't ready for that. Didn't date anyone I tried to set him up with."

Bucky nods. He remembers Steve telling him about Natasha trying to set him up with half the eligible bachelors of SHIELD, back when Bucky was still holed up at the Tower, getting his head together. It'd seemed unbelievable at the time. "Steve hates blind dates," he says.

"Guess he's just waiting for the right fella." 

Bucky swipes the bottle and pours again. "Shut up," he says, but without rancor.

"He's probably gotten more comfortable with piercings since then," she says with a smirk. "He's been in enough Pride parades. Wasn't there that cosplayer with the –"

"Natasha," he says. "Leave it."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. But send me a dick pic sometime. I wanna see." He's not sure if she's joking or not.

After that, Bucky catches Steve looking at his chest a few times, then looking away quickly, and he wonders what Steve's thinking. Whether he's _comfortable_ with piercings, like Natasha said, or whether he's still freaked out by the idea. 

Used to be, Bucky would catch Steve looking at his metal arm with a sad, guilty expression that made Bucky want to hide in his room and lock the door. He wasn't sure which was worse, Steve staring, or Steve pointedly _not_ staring. Now Steve's doing the same thing with Bucky's nipples, and he finds that instead of making him want to hide, it makes him want to laugh, or do something else he can't quite find words for. 

They're sitting on the sofa one day when Bucky absently scratches at his nipple and catches Steve staring, then opening and closing his mouth like he wants to ask something.

"What?" Bucky says, pausing mid-scratch, with his fingernails pulling at the cotton of his t-shirt. Steve's got that embarrassed look. "If you ask me if it hurt, I swear to god, Rogers..."

"Ugh, no," Steve says, horrified. Bucky can tell he's mentally putting "nipple piercings" somewhere on a ranked list with various kinds of HYDRA torture at the top.

"Top of every list of stupid piercing questions," Bucky says. "So, what is it? Spit it out."

Steve gathers his thoughts, which were presumably nowhere good, and says, "I just wondered why. Did you just wake up one morning and think, I want to get my nipples pierced?"

"Nope," Bucky says with a slow smirk, "I woke up one morning and decided I wanted to get my dick pierced. The nipples came later."

"You – no!" Steve splutters. 

"Saw it online," he says. "A Prince Albert. Couldn't stop thinking about it."

"A Prince…"

"Albert. It's a ring, goes in through the urethra and out underneath." He makes a gesture with his hand to sort of show the shape of it. "Do you want to see?"

Steve's approximately the colour of a beet. "I… no!" He pushes up off the sofa and is halfway across the room already, gathering up their empty coffee mugs and taking them to the kitchen. Bucky realizes he's a little disappointed. He wouldn't have minded showing him. 

"You can google it," he calls out. "There's whole websites."

Steve doesn't reply. When Bucky follows him into the kitchen, he finds Steve standing at the sink. He hasn't washed the mugs. Bucky leans against the counter.

"Is it a sex thing?" Steve asks, staring at the running water instead of looking at Bucky. "I mean, are you…?"

"I'm not fucking anyone."

"That's not what I was going to say," Steve says, frowning at Bucky's bluntness. "I thought you might be starting to date again."

"I didn't do it for anyone else. Just me."

"Okay," Steve says. He sounds relieved.

"When I'm ready to start seeing someone, you'll hear about it," Bucky says. He's not ready yet, but he can feel it ahead of him, an ill-defined shape of something he knows is coming. He picks up a dish towel. "Come on," he says, snapping it in Steve's direction. 

Steve flicks water back at him, laughing. 

"Just wash the mugs, punk," Bucky says. It's going to be okay.

He finds himself returning to the conversation a few times, worrying at it. Does Steve really think he'd be out picking up strangers, or using one of those apps, without telling him? Even back in the day, Bucky hadn't dated without Steve knowing all about it, or more often dragging him along too.

He calls Natasha a few days later. "James," she answers, sounding a little out of breath.

"You want to come dancing?" he asks, all in a rush. It's probably a stupid idea, but once he'd had it, he'd picked up the phone and called her straight away.

"Sure," she says, and he hears a clanging sound followed by a couple of heavy thumps on the other end of the line. God knows what she's doing, or why she's answering her phone in the middle of it. He pointedly doesn't ask. "Gimme a minute," she says, and Bucky waits until she comes back and says, "All done. Time and place?"

They make plans for Friday night. "Come by here before? I'll probably need help convincing Steve."

"Really?" He can hear her eyes rolling.

"Please."

Natasha doesn't so much help convince Steve as steamroll over him. She goes straight into his room and starts rifling through his closet. "Wear these," she says, passing him a pair of jeans that actually fit him well. She frowns at his shirts. "These are all terrible," she says. "I can't believe I'm doing straight eye for the queer guy." She shoulders past him and into Bucky's room, and returns a minute later with a black button-down that Bucky knows was in the clean laundry pile on the floor, because he was going to wear that, dammit.

Bucky chooses a loose white shirt instead, with long sleeves that cover his arm. He comes out with a hair tie between his teeth, twisting his hair up into a bun. Nat gives him an approving look. "Looking good," she says. "Doesn't he look good, Steve?"

"Bucky always looks good," Steve says, loyally.

"You'd better not stretch my shirt," Bucky says. Steve's protests that this is how shirts are _supposed_ to fit takes them out the door and halfway down the street. He's wrong, but Bucky's not complaining.

When they walk into the club it's like London during the war, with all eyes on Steve and Bucky just about invisible beside him. He's okay with that – he doesn't need their attention. Natasha helps Bucky drag Steve onto the dance floor, and Steve seems to make an honest attempt to dance. It's pretty obvious he doesn't know what he's doing, but he puts a brave face on it, and even dances with Natasha a little before he makes an "I need a drink" gesture and pushes his way off the dance floor.

Bucky keeps an eye on him as he makes he way through the crowd to the bar. Steve orders a soda, jokes briefly with the bartender, then takes it to one of the high tables around the edge of the dance floor.

Natasha puts her hand on Bucky's cheek, soft but insistent, and makes him turn back to look at her. She wants to dance – she drapes her arm over his shoulder and gets in close, swinging her hips. Bucky lets himself get pulled into it, his own hips moving in time with hers, their bodies fitting comfortably into each others' space. They move well together, which shouldn't surprise him, considering their training. There's a point, though, where it just starts getting weird. History notwithstanding, he's pretty sure they don't have the kind of relationship that warrants that level of grinding. He pulls back, but she follows.

"What are you doing?" he shouts.

She tilts her head Steve's way, then puts her mouth up against his ear, rubbing her cheek against his as if to make it look sexy. "Come on, he's watching."

Bucky looks over her shoulder, and sees Steve sitting at his table sipping his drink. He's watching Bucky and Natasha intently, but he has that old sad look on his face.

Bucky shakes his head. "Don't," he says. That's not why he asked Nat to come. He doesn't want to make Steve feel bad.

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Okay, then, _you_ do something," she shouts, and gives Bucky a little shove in Steve's direction before dancing away into the crowd. 

Bucky detours via the bar and gets a water, just to have something to do with his hands. When he makes it back to Steve's table, Steve's been cornered by a couple of girls who want selfies. He waits until they're gone, sipping the water and schooling himself not to give them the murder glare.

He moves in close beside Steve and bumps shoulders with him. "You should dance," he says.

Steve shakes his head. "I'm no good."

"You're better than you think."

A shrug. "You can dance with Natasha. Or with whoever."

"I want to dance with you," Bucky says, and holds out his right hand.

Steve looks at his hand, then up at Bucky's face, wide-eyed, cautious. It's that look he has a lot lately, like he wants to say something but he's biting it back, waiting to see what happens.

Steve takes Bucky's hand, tentative at first, then warm like a handshake, and Bucky gives a reassuring little squeeze. He leads Steve onto the floor, into the middle where the crowd is tight, with just enough room for the two of them to slip in between the other dancers' bodies. 

Steve's not so bad – he makes a pretty good effort at copying Bucky's moves, and before long he actually looks like he's having a good time. Bucky grins encouragingly, then steps a little closer into his space. The song changes to something with a deeper beat, and Bucky feels it vibrate through his skin, irresistable. He lets himself get caught up in it.

He's not paying enough attention to the crowd. Some asshole gyrates in their direction and suddenly realizes who Steve is. He's drunk and kind of obnoxious, getting right up into Steve's face and touching him. Steve pulls away, raising his arm into a defensive position without thinking. Bucky fights down the urge to kill the guy – his hand went for a knife that's not there – and settles for giving the guy one of his best glares. The guy takes one look and backs away, holding his hands up in exaggerated apology, and disappears into the crowd. 

Steve's left standing awkwardly and looking like he wants to be anywhere else right now. "I'm just gonna," he says, and waves his hand vaguely over to where Natasha's sitting, sipping something with a cherry in it.

"I'll come with you," Bucky shouts back at him.

Steve shakes his head. "You came here to dance. It's okay."

Steve sits with Natasha on the sidelines, and Bucky can see Natasha's keeping an eye out for creepy fans. He gives her a curt nod of thanks. She picks the cherry out of her glass and sucks it at him.

He came here to dance. Steve's not wrong about that, and the music makes him want to move. He stays within eyesight of where Steve's sitting, and lets the beat carry him away again. The more he dances, the looser he feels, his hips and shoulders untensing from how he'd been holding them after he faced that drunk asshole. He watches the people around him, and mimics the way they dance, until his muscles learn the moves and they feel natural to him. A couple of people try to dance with him, and he gives them a couple of minutes then turns away, letting them go. 

He can feel Steve's eyes on him – he's pretty sure he could always tell when Steve's watching him. When Bucky shoots him a look Steve looks away quickly and says something to Natasha, but Bucky can see Steve's not feeling sorry for himself. He's still having a good time, joking and smiling.

When Bucky finally comes off the dance floor, he's sweating, and his shirt is sticking damply to his body. He loosens a couple of buttons and rolls the sleeves up. 

"Scandalous," Natasha says, putting her hand over her mouth as if she's shocked. "James, your wrists are showing." 

He grins and steals her drink, lifting it with his left hand and tipping his head back to get the last of the ice out of the glass. He doesn't care who sees his arm. Most likely nobody'll notice, and if they do it doesn't matter.

The three of them walk home arm in arm, Natasha in the middle. Steve heads upstairs and Bucky stays outside to wait for Natasha's Uber with her. They stand leaning companionably against the wall of the apartment building, Natasha fiddling with her phone, and Bucky watching a couple of drunk pedestrians on the other side of the road.

"Good night," Natasha says, putting her phone away. There's a note of enquiry in her voice.

"Yeah."

"Did you get what you wanted?"

Bucky shrugs. "Got him to dance."

"Pretty sure you're the first person to manage that this century." Natasha says as her phone pings. "Pepper's been trying for years."

"Wasn't so easy last century either."

Natasha's Uber pulls up at the sidewalk. Bucky opens the door for her. "You ever going to make a move?" she asks, sliding into the back seat.

"Maybe," he says, and watches it drive away.

He heads up to the apartment. Steve's in his room, door shut, and there's just a low light on in the kitchen. Bucky heads for the bathroom, looking forward to getting clean and crawling into bed.

The long mirror on the back of the door shows him how he looks. His hair is mussed, strands of it falling down to frame his face, and his shirt is rumpled and a little transparent where he's been sweating. His piercings show through, not just as bumps but as visible metal under the white fabric. The line where his arm meets his shoulder, too – he can see the contrast. It's why he doesn't usually wear this shirt without something under it. Normally he tries to hide it, but tonight… it just is what it is. 

He undoes the shirt buttons slowly, one by one, like a little strip tease just for himself, and lets the shirt hang open, framing his chest and abdomen. He likes how it looks. He thinks he's seen pictures in magazines like this. _I bet Steve would like it._ The thought comes unbidden, but he knows it's true. 

He undresses properly, leaving shirt and boots and socks and jeans in a pile, and stands bare in front of the mirror. _Steve would like it._ He's known a long time. Steve's told him – not lately, not out loud, but when Bucky had first come back and everything was raw and painful and impossible, he'd said it, and Bucky had said "I can't," and he hadn't said it again. 

He lets his gaze take in the scarring on his shoulder, the red line where the metal meets flesh. The barbells in his nipples, same glint as the arm. The ring through his dick. The metal that's been part of him for decades, the new metal that he chose for himself. The way he's standing, barefoot on the bathroom tile, hip cocked, the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head – relaxed. He used to avoid mirrors, didn't want to see what he'd become. Now he takes one last, long look at himself from head to toe, makes about 10% of a smile at his own reflection, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and goes to turn the shower on.

He jerks off under the hot spray of water, thinking about Steve's gaze on his body, and comes with a stifled groan. He collapses into bed with water still beading on his skin. If he listens, he can hear Steve's even breathing in the next room.

Steve's been home for eight days straight when the date of Bucky's next piercing appointment comes around. "I'm going out," Bucky says, pulling on his shirt. Steve looks up from his newspaper with a radiant smile for _no damn reason_ except that he's in a good mood now that he's got some downtime. It's probably his stupid face that makes Bucky say, "Got a piercing appointment."

"Another?" Steve says.

Bucky winks in reply. "See you later." 

He's getting an ampallang this time. Seriously, who comes up with these names? He'd picked it from an album in the studio's waiting room – a long barbell that will sit perpendicular to his Prince Albert, right through the head of his dick. He's been imagining for days, working himself into a state of nervous excitement and endless open browser tabs with pictures of how it'll look. He'd jerked off that morning to a video of another guy with exactly the same combination of metal.

Zero's ready when he arrives, and greets Bucky with a fistbump. "You ready for this?"

"You bet."

Bucky makes himself comfortable, taking his pants off and lying back with his hands behind his head. He's buzzing a little in anticipation, and he realizes he's starting to get hard. "Uh, sorry," he says.

"Not a problem at all," Zero says, completely businesslike. "I have to measure and mark where this is going. It's actually better if you're erect."

That's rapidly becoming the case. "Do you want me to, uh…" Bucky asks.

"Yeah, go ahead, if you don't mind." Zero turns away politely and makes a show of laying out his tools on the cart he uses. Good thing Bucky's not easily embarrassed. He wraps his hand around his dick and strokes himself until he's fully erect.

Zero uses a marker to draw dots where the needle will go, his other gloved hand holding Bucky's shaft steady, and takes the necessary measurements. It's a more complicated process than the last two times, but eventually everything's in place.

Bucky's actually starting to feel a little jittery, which is stupid. This should be no big deal to him. He'd rolled his eyes at the online forums saying this was one of the most painful piercings. He's handled far worse. The thing is, he still remembers the rush and the intensity he felt last time – how different it was when he was _present_ for it, that's the word Zero had used, instead of stepping outside his body and just letting it happen.

Zero steadies him with a hand on his hip. "Get yourself centered," he says. "You want me to breathe with you?"

Zero holds his gaze, and Bucky lets himself fall into it, just staring into his eyes as he breathes. Zero's eyelashes are almost as long as Steve's, Bucky thinks, then blinks and refocuses on his breath. In. Out.

"You ready?" Zero asks, after some indeterminate length of time.

"Yeah." 

"I'll count down. Three, two, one." 

Bucky exhales, and the needle pushes through. It's slower, not instant like last time, and he can feel it passing through his flesh. "Fuck," he gasps.

"Done," Zero says. "Keep breathing."

Bucky gulps in more air, feeling it rush into his lungs. His dick's on fire, searing pain that he struggles to turn into the warm glow he felt for his nipple piercings, struggles not to blank out into nothingness. He breathes out through his teeth. 

The second breath comes easier, the the third easier still. Then Zero's done with the clamps and the barbell's in place. 

"Fuck," Bucky says again. "Fuck." The pain's subsiding into a warm buzz, and he's fine, he's fine, but he finds himself shaking, his breath starting to stutter.

"You're okay," Zero says calmly, still working. He's pressing gauze to Bucky's dick. "Deep breaths."

A shuddering inhale, and then Bucky breaks. He's sobbing, deep cries pulling up from his chest like they're coming from the bottom of the sea, tears streaming down his face. Zero's holding him. Bucky's sitting up, he doesn't know how. "Hey, you're okay," Zero says, his hand rubbing circles on Bucky's back. "Let it out if you have to." 

Bucky can't speak, can't ask, "what's happening?" Can't say, "I'm sorry," or, "you don't have to." So Zero just stays there, hugging Bucky at an angle while his dick bleeds quietly into the white gauze, and Bucky cries until he can't any more.

Eventually, Bucky pulls away, and Zero silently hands him a box of kleenex. He starts tidying up, letting Bucky have a bit of space.

"Sorry," Bucky says, eventually.

"S'okay, man. That stuff happens. Let's get you cleaned up."

Bucky winds up with tea and a cookie and even a god damned blanket, which it turns out Zero had stashed in a cabinet somewhere. Zero sits next to him, quietly, with his own mug of tea. "I don't have another appointment for half an hour," he says. "How're you feeling?"

"Better." He takes inventory. His throat's sore, his eyes feel like sandpaper, his dick's throbbing, but under it all he can feel that warm buzz. He's tired. "I don't know what happened," he says.

"Sometimes we've got stuff inside us that just wants to come out," Zero says with a shrug. 

Some time later, when Bucky reaches the bottom of his mug, Zero says, "You want me to call you a ride to get home?"

"Steve," Bucky says.

"His number's in your file, right? Don't worry, I got it."

If Bucky had had his head on straight, he would have realized the obvious result of Steve getting that call. Approximately three minutes later, the door downstairs slams open and Bucky hears Steve's huge feet running up the stairs three at a time. It's a wonder he hasn't brought the shield. Considering the look he gives Zero as he comes in, it's a good thing he didn't. Then Steve notices that Zero and Bucky are just chilling on the sofa with their empty mugs, and he does a pretty good job of dropping out of his fighting stance and looking a bit more like a normal person rather than a superhero on high alert.

"Hey," says Bucky.

"Bucky? Are you all right?" There's a tone to his voice that Bucky knows, that he's been hearing on and off since 1943 and he only knows how to answer one way.

"I'm _fine_ , Steve," he says, same old tune. "I freaked out, but nobody got hurt."

"Was it a… trigger?"

"Not like that," Bucky says. "It was just a… brain thing." He waves his finger vaguely at his temple, and looks to Zero for help.

"An emotional response. Happens sometimes, no harm done," Zero says. "I didn't think it was a good idea for him to get home alone. Sorry if I frightened you. Zero, by the way," he says, and offers his hand. 

"Oh. Steve. Thanks. For looking after him, I mean."

"All part of the job, man. I'll hand him over to you now, though." He pulls an aftercare sheet from a folder on the desk and hands it to Steve this time. "Your boy here knows the drill already. This one'll probably take a bit longer to heal, so no sex until you're completely certain. And if you're at all tempted to rush it, then condoms for anal _and_ oral. You don't want to know how many germs there are in your mouth," he adds, as Steve stands there gaping.

Steve's so shocked he doesn't even turn red until they're halfway down the stairs. Bucky cracks up. "Okay, that was hilarious," he says. "Your face."

"Jerk," Steve says, bumping his shoulder against Bucky's.

Steve doesn't say anything on the short taxi ride home, but he lets Bucky lean against him in the back seat, Steve's arm solid and warm over his shoulder. Back in their apartment, Bucky kicks his boots off at the door, then goes to put on clean underwear and some loose pajama pants. It's stopped bleeding, at least. The soreness is tempered by the sleepy, heavy feeling in all his limbs. He's not sure how much of that is the endorphins, and how much is… whatever it is that happened.

Steve's in the kitchen, making yet more tea. He looks up when Bucky comes in, and says, "I'm sorry. About what your piercer said. He shouldn't have… it's because I –"

"It's fine," Bucky says. Steve looks like he's about to launch into another round of apologies, and Bucky just really doesn't need to hear it. Like it's his fault if people look at two queer guys who've been living in each other's pockets since the 1930s and make some assumptions. Like Bucky gives a damn what they think anyway. "Just don't, Steve."

"I'm sorry –"

"Seriously, shut up." 

Bucky shakes his head at Steve's stricken expression. Steve fucking Rogers and his fucking guilt trips. "Hey," he says, coming around the counter. "Um. First, can I have a hug?"

"Always."

Steve's hugs have become far more earnest in the 21st century, and that's saying something, because he was pretty serious about them before. Now they're all-engulfing. Bucky lets himself be engulfed, lets himself settle against Steve's broad chest and lets his arms slip around Steve's waist and pull him close. Steve won't let go until Bucky does, but Bucky's not planning to.

"It didn't bother me," he says, into the crook of Steve's neck. "I didn't mind. It was funny." He feels Steve relax a little. "Second thing," Bucky says, and takes a breath.

"Mmm?"

"I want to kiss you now."

Steve does try to pull away at that, but Bucky keeps his hands right where they are so Steve can't go far. "Are you sure?" Steve asks. 

In answer, Bucky presses his lips to the smooth skin over Steve's carotid artery. "I'm sure," he says.

"Oh, thank god."

Bucky's been waiting for this a long fucking time. Steve's lips are as lush as they've always looked, and Bucky's ready to admit he's looked, he's _looked_ , okay, he's always looked. Even when he looked away quickly, tried not to think about how soft they were, how they'd feel against his own lips. Now he knows.

It's like coming home. Steve kisses like he does everything, with sincerity and commitment and complete openness. There's no surprises here. And Bucky… all Bucky can do is try to live up to this stupid asshole's stupidly perfect everything.

Steve cups his hand around the back of Bucky's head, cradling it, and rests his forehead against Bucky's. "I didn't want to rush you," he says.

"I know. You didn't."

The tea gets cold. Bucky loses track of how long they stand there, tangled up in each other. Steve strokes Bucky's hair back from his temple, and kisses his jawline. Bucky stifles a yawn. 

"Like that, huh?" Steve asks with a chuckle.

"Rough day. Wanna… wanna come to bed with me?"

Steve's fervent response is definitely a yes. Bucky kisses him back just as deep, but Steve pulls back and says, "We don't have to, I mean, you can't. Your piercing." 

Right, Bucky's out of action for a day or two. That's not what he wants right now anyway. He just wants to be in Steve's arms, but preferably horizontal, with pillows and blankets. "I just want to lie down," he says. "With you."

"I'm glad you said something," Steve says in a soft voice, when he and Bucky are settled under the covers, arms draped over each other, breathing each other's air.

"Been meaning to for a while." Since last week. Since last year. Since before the war.

It's only early evening, and there's remnants of daylight creeping in around the window blinds. Up close, Steve's eyes look dark. There's little wrinkles in the corners. Bucky nuzzles against Steve's jaw. His own eyes are drooping closed.

It's light again when he wakes up, still lying on his side facing Steve. Either he slept right through the night, or he can't remember waking up. Steve's awake, and looking at him with an open, undisguised fondness that hits Bucky right in the chest.

"Stv?" he says, still half asleep. "Mrng." Steve brushes Bucky's hair out of his face, and kisses him.

"Good morning, Bucky," he says.

Bucky rolls onto his back and stretches, pushing his arms up against the headboard and rolling his back to get the knots out. He manages to cover his yawn with his forearm, and then finds that it's turned into a smile. He has a feeling he'd better get used to his face being that way.

"You going running?" he asks, hoping the answer will be no.

Steve shakes his head. "I think I found something better to do."

"Or someone." Bucky lifts an eyebrow at him.

"That too."

Bucky's never spent the night with anyone, never woken up with them – not like this. Only Steve. Only Steve, lifetimes ago in their drafty tenement and weeks ago on their sofa. It's not so strange after all. But he does need to brush his teeth. 

Steve grumbles when Bucky gets up, but he takes his own turn after, and then crawls back into bed, still looking deliciously rumpled. Bucky decides he likes Steve's hair all mussed up. He runs his hand through it, making it stand up even more. "Good look," he says.

Steve rubs his thumb over Bucky's cheek in reply, where a few days' stubble is definitely starting to get to the point where he should do something about it. Bucky chuckles and rubs his face against Steve's.

It's comfortable. To be able to touch Steve, and wrap himself around him, and smell his familiar, sweaty, morning Steve smell. Steve leans over and kisses him, soft at first, but it quickly turns into something with more intent. Steve brushes his hand over Bucky's chest. "Is this okay?" he asks, his fingertips resting just to the side of Bucky's right nipple, showing as a row of bumps through his shirt.

"Hell yes," Bucky says. "Please." Steve's touch is electric, even through the cloth, and he pushes into it. 

"I haven't been able to stop looking," Steve says, tracing his finger across the surface as if to learn the shape of it.

"Look all you want." 

Steve takes that as an invitation, and pushes Bucky's shirt up so it's rucked under his armpits. He looks _hungry_. "Yeah, come on," Bucky says, and Steve dips his head to take Bucky's nipple in his mouth, tentative at first and then more firmly.

Fuck. The way Steve is licking and gently scraping his teeth over Bucky's nipple, it's going straight to Bucky's dick. He throws his leg over Steve's and pulls in close so he can press against him. And, ow. He can't let this go anywhere. Not yet. It would be painful and messy and he'd have to get up and do the whole salt water routine and he doesn't want any of this to stop.

"Steve," he pants, "Steve, I gotta –" He tangles his hand in Steve's hair and pulls him away. Steve holds on with his teeth for just a second, then lets himself be pulled. Bucky reaches down and adjusts himself, and Steve lets out a rueful groan as he figures out the problem. 

"Feels too good," Bucky grits out between his teeth. "Gotta go easy."

"I don't want to hurt you," Steve says.

"You won't," Bucky says. "Nothing I can't take. Just wanna get it healed. Sooner the better, right?"

Steve gets up to make breakfast, and lets Bucky have first shower. He makes up a cup of saline and takes it into the bathroom with him. When he comes out twenty minutes later, in just a pair of clean boxer briefs, he takes a long gulp from the steaming mug Steve hands him then asks, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow and a pointed look down at his crotch, "Do you want to see it?"

He'd been thinking about it as he cleaned the new piercing, thinking what Steve's face would do when he asks. He's pretty sure Steve won't be able to play it cool, not now. He's not disappointed. Steve swallows his coffee, his Adam's apple bobbing, and nods, speechless.

Bucky peels down his boxer briefs and lets them bunch on his thighs. He leaves his hands on each side, just loosely holding the cloth, and watches to see what Steve thinks.

Steve's eyes are drawn to Bucky's dick, which was the whole point, and for a long moment he doesn't do anything other than breathe a little shallowly. Then he sinks slowly to his knees, right where he is, a couple of feet away, so he can get a better view. He doesn't come closer, doesn't try to touch, just looks.

"Wow," he says, at last.

Bucky circles his dick with his left hand, uses the other to point. "This is the new one. Ampallang," he says, indicating the horizontal barbell.

Steve swallows and nods. "And the Prince Albert."

"Yeah. You seen enough for now?"

Steve bites his lip, and looks up to catch Bucky's gaze. "For now," he says. 

He stands up a little awkwardly, and Bucky realizes Steve's hard, just from looking. Neither of them say anything about it. There's eggs to make, and they're starving. They eat with their feet tangled together under the table, and it's not until Bucky's chasing the last bit of egg with his toast that Steve says, "I don't have anything going on today."

"Me either," Bucky says. 

"I would've said we could spend the day in bed, but… we should probably wait. Go slow."

"You don't _want_ to go slow." Bucky knows he's right as he says it.

"I sure as hell don't," Steve says, and the look he gives Bucky is confirmation of it.

"Me neither." He swallows the last bite of toast, and washes it down with coffee. He settles back in his chair. "When I got the first one, the PA," he says, "I came home and I wanted to play with it. You know what I told myself? This is mine, this is a thing I did for me. Not something someone else did to me. _Mine."_ Steve nods. 

"The sheet Zero gave you," Bucky continues. "Aftercare. That word. It's… I thought _maintenance_ , you know? But it's not that. Maintenance is what you do to a machine." _Care is what you do to a person_ , he thinks but doesn't say out loud; he hopes Steve gets it anyway.

"You're not a machine." Steve gets it.

"I know that now." Bucky rubs his hands over his face. "Waiting," he says. "It sucks, but it's good to… to be able to." He can remember pushing through pain, injury, completing his mission with broken bones, bullets still in his flesh…

"We can wait. It's no problem. Hey," Steve says, nudging Bucky under the table. "Your choice." He's echoing things he said when Bucky first came in, when Bucky got to choose what to eat and when to shower and whether he wanted doctors touching him and what drugs to take. "Your body."

"Yeah," Bucky agrees. Yeah. Inhale, exhale.

They can't stay in the apartment all day. Well, they _could_ , but that'd just be too much temptation. Besides, Steve says he wants to take Bucky out on their first real date.

"I took you dancing," Bucky says.

"You invited Natasha," Steve points out.

Bucky shrugs. "Plausible deniability?"

"Is that what all those girls were back in the day?"

"Could be." They weren't just that, but… yeah. Maybe.

They wind up at Coney Island, eating ice cream and wandering around, and Bucky thinks: we've always been like this. So little has changed. Except this time, they go on the Ferris wheel like the old people they are, and steer clear of the fast rides. They don't need to go looking for that kind of excitement any more.

There's a sign by the Cyclone saying it's ninety years old this summer. They lean against a railing to read the text and look at the old pictures, close enough that their arms brush against each other. "Did you know it was built the year you were born?" Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. "Seems like it was always there." He notices the date of the anniversary celebration, last weekend in June. "Same day as Pride," he comments.

"Yeah," Steve says. 

They haven't talked about it since that one time. Bucky bumps his shoulder against Steve's. "I'll come. I'll march," he says.

"You ready for that?"

"Yeah. You'll be there."

It's gonna be big news when the world realizes that America's Most Eligible Gay Bachelor… isn't. But for now, nobody knows but them, and they can walk out to the end of the pier holding hands, and sit with their arms around each other, and make out like teenagers if they want to. You wouldn't think a couple of baseball caps would constitute much of a disguise, but people just keep being oblivious.

That night, back home, Bucky's preparing his saline when Steve picks up the aftercare sheet, reads over it, and says, "Can I do it?"

"Do what?" Bucky asks.

"The aftercare. Cleaning." He waves his hand at what Bucky's doing.

Bucky frowns. "You want to…"

"Yeah."

When the water's cooled, Bucky mixes it up with sea salt in one of the Avengers mugs Steve brought home from the Tower, and Steve follows him into the bathroom. Bucky strips off his pants, then flips the toilet lid down to sit on it. Steve washes his hands and grabs a stack of gauze swabs from the first aid kit – it's always well stocked – and kneels on the floor in front of him. It's almost like he's starting to make a habit of that, Bucky thinks, with a private smirk that's maybe not so private, because Steve catches it and smirks right back.

"All right, let's see," Steve says. Bucky goes to hold his dick so Steve can get at it better, but Steve bats his hand away. "Let me," he says.

Steve's touching his dick. The fact that he's doing it for maint– _aftercare_ is doing weird things to Bucky's head. Steve's gentle, but not clinical, dipping the gauze in the saline and carefully swabbing it around the piercing. No gloves. No lab coat.

"It can get kind of gross and crusty," Bucky says.

"I don't mind," Steve says, looking up at him. Bucky realizes he doesn't mind either, and ain't that something. Steve's taking care of him and he doesn't want to cringe, doesn't want to deflect and push away. Huh. And this thing he's doing right now, thinking about it as if he's watching from a distance… he doesn't have to do that, either.

He takes a breath. Inhale, exhale. His hand stroking through Steve's hair. Steve caring for him. The sting and pull of the barbell as Steve cleans it. The breeze from the open window on his skin, the sweat under his ass on the plastic toilet lid, the lump in his throat. Good thing he doesn't have anything to say, anyway.

When Steve's done, and all the gauze squares are in the trash and the Avengers mug is back in the kitchen where it belongs, Bucky says, "Let me show you something," and takes Steve by the hand, leading him to his bedroom. "Sit there," he says, indicating the foot of the bed. Bucky takes off his pants and sprawls against the headboard, same as he did that first time. 

"Buck, I'm not gonna –"

"You're not gonna do anything. Just watch."

Bucky spreads his legs apart, digging his heels into the covers. He starts by putting his hands on his knees, just to sit displayed for a minute. He's watching Steve, to see his reaction, and Steve's still frowning a little, like he's not sure what's going on but he's pretty sure he should disapprove of it. "Not gonna touch anything I'm not supposed to," Bucky says, and draws his hands up his thighs, letting them dip to the inside where his skin's most sensitive, and finishing with his thumbs tucked into the crease of his hips, rubbing back and forth a little. 

Steve swallows. "You'd better not," he says, getting with the program. He's pretending to be stern, hiding a smile.

"Wouldn't want to compromise the healing process," Bucky says. His balls are right there, so he reaches down with his right hand to hold them, tugging a little and rolling them in his hands, careful not to get anywhere near the new piercing. "You want to see what I did when I got the first one?" he asks. Steve nods wordlessly. "Like this," Bucky says, and uses one fingertip, teasing, to follow the vein up and down the underside of his dick.

Steve shifts to make himself more comfortable. 

"I can touch this one, I guess, since it's fully healed," Bucky says, and carefully takes hold of his PA ring between thumb and forefinger. He puts his other hand, his metal hand, around the base of his dick, and pulls on the ring, stretching as far as it'll go. It makes something curl and tense inside him, so he does it again, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Buck," Steve says.

"Mm?" Bucky doesn't open his eyes, just keeps doing what he's doing, knowing that Steve's watching every move. It's like he can feel Steve's gaze on him, a prickling under his skin. 

"That looks… real good. Does it feel good?"

Stupid question, Bucky thinks, and grins. "Feels so good." 

"Bucky," Steve says again, and there's a whine in his voice that makes Bucky open his eyes again. Steve's got the heel of his hand pressed against the bulge in his jeans.

"Yeah, c'mon," Bucky says, and Steve unbuttons his fly, pushes his briefs down and lets his dick spring free. It's – it's not the first time Bucky's seen it, it's not the first time he's even seen it erect. Jesus, they went through puberty together. He remembers walking in and seeing Steve… of course he'd walked right out again, and pushed the thought away, after. That was a long fucking time ago. 

But this is another time, and there's no reason for him not to look all he wants. He keeps stroking and pulling at his dick, carefully staying away from the new piercing, but his attention is on Steve, who's looking a bit pink around the cheeks as he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks it, getting it good and wet before he drops it between his legs. _Jesus fucking Christ, that man's mouth,_ Bucky thinks. There's a thought  – a good thought, one that he can finally bring out and dust off and examine in the full light of day. 

He takes a moment to lick his own hand, following Steve's lead, and switches up his stroke, imagining Steve's mouth on him. Steve's watching him intently, biting his lip, like he knows. Wouldn't take a mindreader. 

"Want your mouth," he says, and Steve just nods and moves his own hand faster. They're not gonna, they can't… but he can want it. He wants it so much. Steve's lips on his shaft, teasing. His tongue playing with the metal barbell, flicking at the balls on either side, tugging at it so he feels it right through…

"I can't – I gotta stop, Stevie, I can't –" He pulls his hands away and fists them in the covers, breathing heavily. Steve does the same, leaving his cock red and leaking, standing at attention in front of him. "Hey," Bucky says, his eyes wide, "you don't gotta…"

Steve shrugs. "Not without you." He tucks himself away with a wince, and goes to do up his jeans again.

"Nah, come on," Bucky says, and pats the bed beside him. "Don't hold out on me."

Steve pulls his jeans up and crawls up beside Bucky, but he shakes his head. He buries his face in Bucky's shoulder and says, "I can wait." 

"You really don't have to," Bucky says, but of course he does. Steve's been waiting a long damn time for Bucky. Steve's a self-sacrificing idiot.

"I really do," Steve says.

They kiss, sloppily. Steve's looking a little wrecked, his hair all over the place and his cheeks red.

"Won't be much longer," Bucky says. "A day, maybe."

So of course Steve gets a call to Assemble early the next morning. His phone goes off with the stupid loud ringtone that can't be silenced, and Steve groans and answers it. He rolls back and squeezes Bucky tight for a long moment before he tears himself away.

Bucky can't go back to sleep. He showers and cleans the gunk off his dick (healing is disgusting) and eats breakfast and goes to the gym to throw some weights around in the vain hope that it'll distract him from the ants crawling under his skin. When he finishes his routine there are new texts on his phone.

From Steve: "En route to Florida. I'll check in when I can." He's added a heart, which is new. Bucky texts him back one of the same.

From Natasha: "Finally", and "Good job." Bucky finds a face with its tongue sticking out and sends that. 

He still feels antsy, despite the workout. Every time he thinks about Steve he feels lightheaded, and like his skin is tighter than usual, and his belly flip-flops between worried for Steve's mission and excited about his return. He needs a distraction.

He walks the neighborhood in a purposeful grid pattern, scanning the buildings and alleyways and noting changed conditions. A construction site, a blocked alleyway, a new rooftop bar. Underneath it he sometimes sees flashes of what was there before: a row of tenements, a deli, a movie theatre, a shoe-shine stand. It's been a while since he did this; he used to patrol almost daily when they first moved back to Brooklyn. It helps settle his mind. 

There are people coming and going from a tattoo parlor that's been closed and boarded up for a while. Bucky observes from the other side of the street, and quickly realizes they're just moving stuff into a small U-Haul van. Two guys are wrestling a padded table, kind of like Zero's, into the back. Bucky's eyes are drawn to the door of the store, and he notices it's actually Zero standing there talking to the guys. Without even really thinking about it, Bucky crosses the street.

"Hi," he says, standing on the curb.

"Hey, James," Zero says. "'Sup?"

"Nothing." 

"You okay, man?" He looks wary. Bucky quickly shakes his head and relaxes his stance.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Weird day," he says. "Whatcha up to?"

"Case bought all this stuff," Zero says, waving at the tattoo parlor equipment that the guys are still moving. "He's gonna move into the other room in the studio. I said I'd help him move but now he's not here." He grimaces. "I have no idea what I'm doing at the other end."

"I can help," Bucky says quickly. 

"Would you? That'd be excellent." He offers Bucky his hand in a sort of hip handshake that Bucky somehow manages to follow without looking like an idiot. "C'mon," he says and they go to move more stuff into the truck.

It's no trouble at all to ride along with Zero to the studio then help him move all the stuff upstairs. Bucky takes the low end of the heavy things, letting Zero take the other even though Bucky could do it easier himself. No need to be a jerk about it. He's just helping out a pal, like anyone would.

"So, hey," Zero says when they're done and sitting on the padded table in the new tattoo room, each with a cold beer, "I think I put my foot in it the other day. I assumed you and Steve were together, but he looked pretty uncomfortable, so…"

Bucky feels a grin crack his face in half. "We weren't," he says. "Are now. Thanks for that."

"Really? Holy _shit_ ,man." Zero laughs and thumps Bucky on the back. "Congrats, seriously."

"It's been on the cards for a while," Bucky admits.

"A while like seventy years a while?"

"More like eighty."

"You guys. Seriously."

Bucky sticks around through the afternoon, reading body art magazines and watching customers come and go, but eventually he has to head home to the empty apartment. He eats tacos and watches David Attenborough documentaries until he thinks he might be able to sleep. 

He wakes up to another text from Steve: "Another day or two" and a frowning face. He sends back a heart, but there's no reply. He knows Steve can't answer when he's in the field, but that doesn't make it feel any better.

When he cleans his piercing that morning, there's no tenderness and the barbell moves smoothly back and forth. He barely knows how he gets through the day. He tries to keep up his usual routine and stay busy, tries not to get overtaken by the fear for Steve fighting God knows what or the nervous excitement for him coming home or the curling arousal he feels every time his dick brushes against something. Each time he goes to piss, he checks his piercing, and by afternoon he's convinced it's completely healed. He stands with his half-hard dick in his hand for a long minute, then puts it away.

At some point he gives up any pretense of being cool about everything, and after he cleans up the shards of broken plates from the little episode that he will _deny ever happened_ , he finds himself flipping between news channels looking for any mention of what's going down in Florida. Whatever it is, it's not on the news. He wishes he could be reassured by that.

When he goes to bed, he puts his phone next to his pillow and leaves the ringer turned up. He shuts his eyes and lies there, and listens to drunk people and sirens in the streets. 

The text message comes in around 3am and makes him jump out of his skin, even though he's been waiting for it. "Finally done. Home after debrief." Steve's added a selfie, showing himself in the quinjet. He looks tired, and his face is dirty and there's a shadow on his jaw that might be a bruise, but he's in one piece.

Bucky manages to catch a few hours' sleep. He wakes up with a fuzzy head, full of a half-remembered dream about Steve. The sun's just coming up. He wraps his arms around his pillow and presses his face into it, scrunching his eyes shut. His body knows Steve will be home soon and between the feeling in the pit of his stomach and how hard his dick is, he knows he's not going back to sleep.

He pushes his underwear down then kicks it off, letting it fall on the floor beside the bed. Under the covers, he rolls onto his stomach and presses against the sheets.

In the end, it's the realization that Steve's probably just as desperate that makes him stop. Two days in the field – he won't have had a chance to do anything either. Right now he's probably sitting in a debriefing, just itching to get out of there.

He reaches for his phone before he thinks it through too carefully, and texts, "Can't wait for you to get home."

"This debriefing may never end," comes the reply, with a sad face.

"Not acceptable. Need me to come break some heads?"

"Tempting, but no. What are you doing this morning?"

"Just woke up. Naked in bed." He rolls over onto his back to take a selfie. It doesn't show much, just his head and shoulders against the pillows. He's got epic bedhead but he suspects Steve will appreciate that.

There's a long pause, where the phone just shows three dots, then finally Steve's text comes through. "Wrapping up now. Stay right where you are."

Steve makes it back to Brooklyn in record time. Bucky hears his key in the lock, and calls out "Hey," as soon as he's inside. He hears the thump of Steve dropping his duffel bag on the floor and approximately three seconds later Steve's standing in Bucky's bedroom doorway, looking tired and rumpled in the same civvies he was wearing when he left, and so good Bucky can't stand the fact that he's still on the other side of the room.

"Get over here," he says.

Steve's across the room in about four strides, somehow managing to pull his shirt off on the way and get his belt unbuckled before he leans down to give Bucky the hottest, dirtiest kiss he's ever had. Bucky breaks away just enough to pull back the covers and let Steve get his pants off.

Steve more or less dives at him. "All healed?" he asks, breathlessly.

"All healed."

Steve's hand is on Bucky's dick, and Bucky can't help pushing up into his touch, making a sound that's somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. Steve starts to say, "How do –" but Bucky gets his own hand on Steve and Steve swallows whatever he was going to say in a strangled gasp of his own.

"Yeah," Bucky says, nonsensically. Steve's hand is rough and awkward but fuck, fuck, it doesn't matter. He's too worked up, been waiting too long. Steve's cock is in his hand and Steve's mouth is on his neck and Steve's skin is all over him and Bucky comes quickly, fucking up into Steve's hand. Before the static has even cleared from Bucky's head Steve makes a rough, desperate noise and comes too.

"Hi," Steve says, muffled against Bucky's shoulder. His face is burning hot against Bucky's skin.

"Hi yourself."

Bucky realizes he's still got his hand around Steve's dick, and it hasn't flagged. Neither has his own. He gives an experimental squeeze, a bit of a stroke, and Steve whimpers.

"'s a serum thing?" Bucky asks, and Steve nods.

"Yeah. I can… I can keep going."

"Same."

Bucky doesn't bother feeling bad about how quickly that was over. Now that they've taken the edge off, he might actually have half a chance of making it good, this time. Bucky might not have done this with a fella before, but he's seen more action than Steve has (and more internet porn, he's pretty sure), so he figures he should take the lead. He gets a leg between Steve's and rolls him over onto his back, and Steve rolls easily with him. Who knew – turns out the way to get Steve to do what you want without arguing is to have your hand on his dick. 

"Gonna make you feel so good, Stevie," he says, and crowds up over Steve's body to catch his mouth with his own, kissing him deep and dirty.

"You haven't called me that in years."

"Stevie?" 

"Yeah."

"Stevie." It's the name he called him when they were kids. He can't remember when he last used it, but he wants to use it all the time now. "Stevie. My Stevie."

"Jesus, Buck. Yeah. Yours."

All his. Steve's laid out for him, limbs sprawled loose across the sheets, skin flushed and smeared with the mess of his first orgasm. Bucky wants to touch every part of him. He's not in too much of a rush, now. 

Turns out Steve's sensitive all down his sides, and the undersides of his arms. Bucky remembers rolling on the bare floor when they were little, tickling him until he wheezed. Steve's armpit was always the best place to get him. Now Bucky scrapes the tips of his metal fingers along the inside of Steve's elbow and up his bicep, and Steve draws in a breath and bites his lip and squirms, lifting his hips up from the mattress, but he doesn't giggle and he definitely doesn't wheeze.

Bucky uses his mouth to make red marks up the pale inside of Steve's arm and across Steve's chest, sucking to bring them up bright and clear against the smooth skin. They won't last, but Bucky likes the way Steve grabs handfuls of his hair and holds on tight, breathing hard against the sharp bite of his teeth. He's halfway down Steve's abdomen before Steve seems to realize which way he's heading. Bucky looks up from somewhere around his navel and says, "Tell me if I'm doing this wrong," before ducking his head and licking at the head of Steve's dick.

"You're… not doing it wrong." Steve's sounding a little bit wrecked, which is what Bucky was going for.

Bucky's been on the receiving end of this a few times, a long time ago, but he never stopped to think about technique like he is now. He tries a few different things with his hands and his mouth, using the noises Steve makes to guide him. He hadn't realized how good Steve would feel on his tongue, how good he would taste. He's getting real intimate with the ridge around the head of Steve's cock when Steve says, "Bucky, Bucky, Bucky," and pulls at his arm, trying to make him come back up the bed.

"Yeah?" Bucky says, and lets Steve drag him up into a kiss.

"Like this." Steve wraps his hand over Bucky's, and guides him, shows him the stroke he prefers. He likes it tight, and fast, and he keeps hold of the back of Bucky's neck so he stays close even if he's just sort of mouthing at whatever part of Steve's face is nearest rather than kissing him properly. Steve comes quietly, tensing up and letting out a single groan and shooting white streaks all over the marks Bucky left on his stomach.

Bucky props himself up on his metal elbow and looks down at him. "You're a mess, Rogers," he says, smearing his fingers across Steve's abs.

"Whose fault is that?" Steve doesn't open his eyes as Bucky reaches for a corner of the bedsheet that's fallen down somewhere at the side of the bed. They need washing anyway. He cleans Steve up, swipes the cloth over what's left of the mess drying on his own skin, and throws the sheet back down on the floor.

"Feelin' good?"

"Stupid question." He's got a point. Bucky's pretty sure he's never seen Steve look this relaxed. Come to think of it, relaxed is not a word he'd usually use for Steve at all, but right now he seems distinctly mellow, and his body is so loose it's like he's half-melted into the bed. He rolls his head to one side and gives Bucky a sideways smile. "Love you," he says.

"You're just saying that to get me into bed," Bucky jokes, poking him gently in the ribs. Steve flails ineffectually, then manages to catch Bucky's hand and hold it against his chest where it can't do any harm.

"Did it work?"

"Guess so." 

Steve strokes his thumb over the back of Bucky's knuckles. "Always love you," he murmurs.

"Love you too, punk." 

There's not much to say after that, so they just lie there smiling at each other like idiots. After a while, Bucky realizes they're breathing in the same rhythm.

He's almost completely zoned out, not thinking of anything much except the feeling of Steve's chest rising and falling under the palm of his hand and the way Steve's eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheeks and the faint freckle near the bridge of Steve's nose, when Steve says, "Is it my turn?"

"Hmm?"

Steve rolls over and props himself up on one hand. "My turn. Got some unfinished business." He reaches over and rests his forefinger lightly on Bucky's right nipple. 

Bucky breathes deep, making his chest rise into it. "Can't have unfinished business."

His nipples are always standing up these days, like Zero said they would. Steve only has to apply pressure with that one fingertip to make Bucky feel the pressure of the barbell. He rubs it one way and then the other, then tries pushing at the barbell itself, poking at one of the balls so that Bucky's nipple twists a little.

"Can I…" he asks, and pinches gently, pulling Bucky's nipple away from his body. 

It's one of Bucky's favorite things – he's spent more time than he'd like to admit just doing that when he's had some private time over the last few weeks. "Uh huh," he says. There's a sharp feeling inside, where the metal runs through his flesh, contrasting with the pads of Steve's fingertips. "Harder."

Steve's eyes widen, and he grins and sits up properly. Then he throws one leg over Bucky's hips and straddles him, and oh, that's – that's Steve's balls just hanging out and rubbing against Bucky's dick, fine, no problem. Bucky doesn't have much time to think about that before he gets distracted, as Steve gets hold of both his nipples and starts working them.

"How hard?" Steve asks, but it's probably rhetorical because he's testing as he goes, kneading and pinching and pulling and watching as Bucky starts to squirm. 

"Like that," Bucky says, and then, he doesn't know how much later, "Harder," until he's panting and trying to push his hips up against Steve's. He realizes Steve's got him pinned and he doesn't even mind. His hands are free. He could get out from under Steve if he wanted, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't know what to do with his hands other than grab hold of handfuls of the bedsheets and resist doing anything that'd make Steve stop.

"Fuck," he says, and he can feel his dick is starting to leak pre-come. If he could just get enough friction to –

But Steve sits back on his haunches and denies him even that. He lets go of Bucky's nipples and rests his hands, warm and flat, over them, waiting for Bucky to settle.

"Stevie," he whines.

Steve grins and digs his nails in, right where Bucky's flesh is tender and sensitive. His nails are short but they're enough to make Bucky arch up off the bed. "Fuck, fuck," he says. 

"Jesus, Bucky, you're…"

"What?"

"Surprising." He smooths the flats of his palms over Bucky's nipples again, then skooches down so he's resting over Bucky's thighs. Bucky's dick twitches and bobs between them. A drop of pre-come clings to the ring of his Prince Albert.

Steve waits, waits for Bucky to take a few breaths and unclench his fists from the sheets, waits for him to unclench his _toes_ which he's somehow clenched too. As he lets himself relax, he realizes he can feel liquid heat spreading from his nipples through his chest, through his whole body, the same as when he had them pierced. 

He opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't know what, but Steve preempts him by touching the drop of fluid running down Bucky's PA, gathering it on his fingertip then brushing it onto the head of Bucky's dick. He curls his other hand loosely around the base to hold it steady, then carefully touches the other piercing, the barbell, gently nudging the balls on either end and pushing it back and forth. There's some give – it's a little loose, with room to move – and the feel of the metal sliding through the hole is intense.

"Did you try it out?" Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. "Wanted to wait."

"You're crazy," Steve says, but Bucky doesn't think so. This – this is better. This is worth it. He can feel Steve's touch through the metal. He can't see it, but he thinks the inside of his piercing must be pink and fresh, brand new skin.

"How's it feel?" Steve asks.

"Hard to describe." He tries anyway. "Sensitive."

"This one too?" Steve slides the PA ring through its hole, slick with pre-come. 

"New one's more sensitive. They're both – " He doesn't get to finish whatever he was going to say, because Steve bends down and runs his tongue around them, tracing the metal where it enters and exits his body. "Jesus Christ."

Steve smirks up at him and takes the PA ring between his teeth, worrying it from side to side then tugging at it, like he saw Bucky do with his own hands the other morning. His whole dick moves with it, going wherever Steve pulls. Bucky reaches down to touch the ampallang while he does it, but Steve brushes his hand aside and takes over. 

"Steve," he says, "Oh god, Stevie." Steve's still smirking as he swipes his tongue wetly up the underside of Bucky's dick, then opens his mouth and wraps it right around the head. Bucky gives up on making words, and goes back to grabbing handfuls of the sheets. He thinks he hears something rip.

Steve's apparently _very fucking dedicated_ to figuring out what works best, because he tries everything. He does things with his tongue and his lips and his teeth and the fucking insides of his cheeks that Bucky can't even keep track of. It all feels good, but some of it feels really fucking good, and he just winds up making moaning, whimpering sounds to try and provide feedback because he's helpful that way. 

Some combination of Steve's hand making long strokes up his shaft, bumping against the ampallang, and his tongue against the place where the PA comes out, brings Bucky to the edge. His balls tighten and nothing but Steve's muscular forearm across his hips stops him from fucking up into Steve's mouth. He remembers enough of his manners to gasp, "I'm gonna, I'm gonna," and let Steve pull back so he doesn't get a faceful, then comes so hard he sees stars. 

Steve strokes him through the aftershocks and sits back, looking smug. He's got Bucky's come all over his hand. He lifts it to his mouth, watching to see Bucky's reaction, and cautiously puts his tongue out to lick at it. He looks thoughtful, then scrunches up his face and wipes his hand on Bucky's chest.

"Fuck you," says Bucky, laughing. He hasn't quite recovered yet, but he manages to sit up and grab Steve's arm, getting in underneath with his other hand to poke him ruthlessly in the armpit. Steve rolls over, squealing like an undignified seven-year-old, and falls off the bed with a thump. When he lifts his head up warily over the edge of the mattress, Bucky smears come through his hair.

Good thing they have a big shower, Bucky thinks. He stands up and offers Steve his left hand, pulling him upright. He takes the opportunity to look him over: flushed and marked, his hair in ridiculous spikes, his lips red and his eyes bright, miles and miles of smooth perfect skin and muscle, and inside it all, his Stevie. All his.

Steve's looking at him, too. Bucky's skin feels warm where Steve's gaze rests on it, taking in every part of him, metal and flesh and scars and history. Steve doesn't look away, and the warmth settles somewhere deep inside Bucky's chest.

"C'mon, shower time," he says.

"Why?" says Steve, frowning as if he's trying to remember if they've got something they're supposed to do today.

"So we can go dirty up your bed next."

Steve flashes a sunrise smile at Bucky, then races him to the bathroom.

* * *

**Epilogue**

There's an after-party at the end of the parade. Bucky finds himself and Steve being pulled along in the midst of a bunch of other veterans, including a couple he recognizes from the Brooklyn VA. They're a colorful group, some marching in uniforms and others in civilian clothes, carrying American flags and rainbow flags and a couple of other flags Bucky's going to have to look up later.

Music's pumping from huge speaker stacks. Bucky surveys the crowd. There is… a lot of skin. A _lot_ of skin. In fact it's pretty much wall to wall half-naked, sweaty, buff gay men. Bucky turns to Steve, grinning wickedly, and pulls off his shirt and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. He hears someone wolf-whistle from the crowd of vets, and turns to give them the full view, waving his metal hand. 

Steve laughs. "Really?" he shouts over the noise.

"You too. Do 'em a favor."

Steve looks around, as if he's trying to spot any cameras. Even if there were any Steve would hardly stand out in this crowd. "Fine," he says, shaking his head. He grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls it off, then tucks it into his waistband, same as Bucky. More whistling from the vets.

Bucky puts his arm around Steve's waist and calls out, "Sorry fellas, he's taken." 

He's not looking forward to the press thing they're going to have to get through tomorrow, but for now it doesn't matter. He wants to dance. He grabs Steve's hand and pulls him into the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](https://sassbandit3000.tumblr.com/) or [reblog](https://sassbandit3000.tumblr.com/post/170483341491/titanium-im-bulletproof-nothing-to-lose) this fic, if you are so inclined!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Bonus Post-Credits Scene**  
>     
> The new tattoo artist, Case, takes Sam into the back room that Bucky helped set up. As soon as he's out of sight, Zero turns to Bucky, eyes wide.
> 
> "Oh. My. God." 
> 
> "Huh?" 
> 
> "That was _Falcon_. You didn't tell me you were bringing Falcon." He points at Bucky, accusingly. "You gotta warn me, man. Did I act like an asshole? Oh my god, I totally acted like an asshole."
> 
> Bucky's confused. Zero had been at the front desk when Bucky and Sam arrived, and he'd offered Sam a glass of water and the intake forms, same as normal. "You didn't act like an asshole. Why would you act like an asshole?"
> 
> "Because he's _Falcon_."
> 
> "Yeah? And Steve's Captain America." Zero hadn't seemed weirded out by that, or by the fact that Bucky was a cyborg-slash-supersoldier, or any of the other shit that went with their ridiculous lives.
> 
> Zero makes a dismissive gesture, like Steve's no big deal. Bucky's pretty sure he ought to be offended on Steve's behalf. 
> 
> "Whatever," Zero says, then shakes his head like he still can't believe he actually met Sam Wilson, a totally normal guy with a set of wings that he wears as a backpack. "Falcon, man. Do you think I could get a selfie with him?"


End file.
